


marry the sunset

by becuille



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Fluff, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Pre-Canon, Reconciliation, Rekindled Romance, Smut, my bisexual husband kings, no major spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becuille/pseuds/becuille
Summary: On the night before his wedding, T’Challa is not surprised by his inability to sleep. He is plagued by thoughts of M’Baku from years ago, pushed back in his memory like a long forgotten dream.





	marry the sunset

T’Challa is nineteen and his father is still alive, and at the height of the Wakandan summer he meets a Jabari lord late at night. 

The young prince doesn’t meet with him in the mountains, it’s too bold and he’s not rebellious, but this is his one rebellious act he’s allowed. God knows how many his little sister has had already, though she has only been walking on her feet for a few years. He sneaks out of the palace, light footed and blood beating in his ears, and M’Baku meets him at the edge of the city. 

“My prince,” M’Baku says, mock bowing and taking hold of his hand. He beckons him out to a spot that he’s made for them under the stars, far away enough that they’re out of sight. He brought some furs for them to lie on and some food to see them through until morning, and T’Challa’s heart beats so hard it sends him dizzy. 

The younger Jabari lord pushes him to the ground and undresses him, eager, like they don’t have all night together. He stifles the noise T’Challa makes as he brings him off, closing his mouth over his as it someone might hear, even out here.

“One day you will try to rule over me.” M’Baku says after, once they have both gotten back their breaths. There was never a time growing up he wasn’t taller than his crown prince, but now he grows stocky and looms over him as T’Challa lies across his chest.

“Try?”

M’Baku chuckles, but then his expression grows sullen. “It might be sooner, rather than later. My mother thinks my father will not survive the year.” M’Baku looks off into the distance, to the east where the morning sun tinges the edges of the mountains silver. “My people have no loyalty to me yet, there may be troubles to follow if I am not careful.”

T’Challa takes hold of his hand and kisses it. He almost dreads the future where he will be king and not be able to have small freedoms like this. Almost. He has been bound by duty from birth, anything else is a luxury and he intends to treat it as such. 

He climbs atop of him and kisses him again then down his body, worshipping and comforting him until they both forget about it all. They finally fall asleep wrapped in each other under the night sky.

  


* * *

  


M’Baku’s father doesn’t survive the year and M’Baku was right. 

Small acts of resistance begin from the Jabari against his father, their king. Outlying villages face raids, and unable to stop them and fearing an uprising himself, M’Baku allows it. The tribe isolates themselves even more up in the hostility of the mountains, and T’Challa sees little again of the new king.

  


* * *

  


Years later, after the death of T’Chaka, T’Challa is a different man when he is crowned king. The Jabari people disagree with the new king’s ideologies, and raids become attacks, leading to turmoil and death. Any relations left between the Jabari and the rest of the tribes deteriorate.

Lives on both sides begin to be lost, but he does not tell his people to attack. When Ayo drags one of her sisters to T’Challa’s feet with broken limbs, blood on her hands and fury in her eyes, he knows his people cannot endure it any longer. 

T’Challa calls an urgent meeting between all leaders and the council elders. He sends Okoye personally to bring M’Baku and his envoy to make terms of reconciliation, with orders to bring him by force if necessary. He’s only a little surprised when he comes willingly. He imagines he’s a different person by now, hardened by conflict and icy winds.

When T’Challa arrives in the court, all the representatives of the tribes are waiting for him at a long table. He sits opposite M’Baku, whose men flank him on either side, and they are all covered head to toe in their wood armour. M’Baku may have even grown still from being a teenager, and would tower over T’Challa had he stood with the rest of them upon his arrival.

“I take it that your being here means you are ready to begin discussions of peace,” T’Challa begins once everyone is seated.

“We are. Jabari lives are being lost. I am prepared to order my men to stand down under penalty of banishment, if you can agree to my terms.”

“Your terms? Have some respect for your king,” Zuri interjects from his right. “You are here at his convenience.”

“It’s fine.” T’Challa waves his hand. “What are your terms?”

“You capture our warriors who have attacked your people. I want them released and pardoned. Any further arrests should also be sent back to us.” Leaders of other tribes begin murmuring among themselves. “I also want provisions of food for the winter, if we request it.”

“I can agree to that. Anything else?”

“My people are strong willed. They see nothing but differences between our people.” Their differences are stark even across this table. The greys and browns of their hard armour contrast to the bright fabric and sharp silhouettes of those opposite.

“I can do little to convince them of your good interests when you make no actions to convince them yourself,” M’Baku continues. “They are empty words coming from me, I have no ties to any of your people.”

It’s true the Jabari have not been offered the same assistance and luxuries the other tribes have, dating back to before his father. They have a history of proudly rebuking them. But even so, T’Challa knows that gifts or money would not create a lasting truce. 

“I agree,” T’Challa says. “What is it you want? You only have to say and we can provide you with technology, medicines, we can build you hospitals-

“I want a marriage,” he demands. “Into the royal family, to prove you consider the Jabari one of your own. Nothing less will do for the rightful Jabari king.” 

Nakia stands up and Shuri grabs her by the arm, tugging her back down. Shuri’s face is blank.

“You have no right to demand anything of my sister.” T’Challa says, keeping his voice level. “What does she have to do with these quarrels?” She would not flourish kept away in the mountains and away from all her innovations and technology. T’Challa fills with anger but holds it back.

“I said nothing about marrying _her_.” M’Baku leans across the table, spreading his arms and moving closer to him. “I am a king, like you. It suits me better to marry the heir to your throne, not his kid sister.”

“How dare you,” Shuri says, unable to bite her tongue any longer.

“Shuri, it’s okay,” T’Challa says, trying to calm her. They would not get any leverage if they acted emotionally.

Years ago, T’Challa never would’ve imagined him like this. He was once carefree and headstrong, but now he puts on a cool, diplomatic exterior, cold, even, representing the interests of his people. He’s had this thrust upon him like he did, and has adapted to it.

T’Challa pauses for a moment, brow knitted while he considers what M’Baku is proposing, his ire subsiding as he thinks carefully.

“And you truly believe this will convince your people that there can be peace?”

“I do. I would not suggest it otherwise.”

T’Challa wrings his hands under the table. If M’Baku is willing to give up part of his freedom for this, then he must believe in it.

“Under the term that you will sign a treaty of peace, laying down your arms against all people of Wakanda, I will do it.”

Without hesitation, M’Baku says, “It is done.”

“Then I accept, in order to unite the five tribes. Make any arrangements you must.”

T’Challa stands, and his side of the table stands with him, before he leaves in a storm with the Dora Milaje following at his heels. 

  


* * *

  


“He must be joking,” Shuri says, pacing around his room later on, after she has allowed him some time to himself. “What year does he think this is? Political marriages, my ass.” 

T’Challa buries his face in a pillow. At least he doesn’t have to act like a wise ruler around her. “Besides, you don’t need to do this to defend my honour, big brother, it’s not too late. I can marry him instead if I have to.” She gestures wildly with her hands, agitated.

“I know that,” T’Challa says, rolling over on his bed. Her nervousness is making him feel worse, so instead he stares up at the ceiling. He huffs out a deep breath. “But I still want you to have freedoms I have always known I didn’t have. To love who you want to love.”

He glances over at her and she looks guilty. She hasn’t said a word to him about Nakia, but the palace carries rumours like a fickle breeze.

“Forget that, anyway, he didn’t ask for you. If he believes I can do this one thing to the stop fighting and the outbreak of war, I will do it. It may do the country good.”

“Why are you so stubborn? What if I want to be the saviour of Wakanda and marry the scary king from the mountains?” T’Challa laughs, feeling a little lighter already. “I feel more sorry for M’Baku than you, anyway. He has no idea how bad your breath is in the morning.”

“I pity him too. He has no clue how persistent his future sister-in-law is.”

Shuri wrestles him into a hug. She doesn’t thank him out loud, but as she goes quiet, holding onto him tight, T’Challa feels relief flow out of her. 

  


* * *

  


Gifts begin to arrive after that, day after day by delivery from the Jabari. They are brought to T’Challa in the hall, and Shuri bursts into fits of giggles. 

“He has a sense of humour at least, your husband-to-be. He forgets he is your consort, not the other way around. That asshole.”

M’Baku has sent him gifts of food, root vegetables and salted fish only found in mountain rivers by the caseload, as well as jewelry made from polished dark Jabari wood. T’Challa tries on a ring and it fits well, but slips it off when Shuri cackles again, opening up a box of wooden necklaces and trying them on.

“What shall we send him in return? ”T’Challa says, trying to keep a straight face. “I’d bet he’d throw even the finest vibranium ring off the nearest cliff.” He can keep in good humour; his impending wedding doesn’t feel like a reality yet. He hasn’t even seen M’Baku since their talks of peace.

“Let’s do it. We’ll add a few vibranium spears for good measure, maybe a nice big television. Just to make sure his feathers are ruffled.”

Later, Ramonda brings him a large box, and she beams when he opens it. Inside it is an agbada made from thick, heavy cloth woven with vibranium, telling by the texture. The fabric is black with gold pattern running all over it. It gleams when the light catches it right.

“I’ve had one sent to him too. And this,” she pulls a heavy gold necklace out from the box. “Your father wore to our wedding.” She places it over his head.

“Thank you, mother,” he says, turning it in his fingers. “It’s beautiful.”

Maybe then the reality begins to set in.

  


* * *

  


On the night before his wedding, T’Challa is not surprised by his inability to sleep. He is plagued by thoughts of M’Baku from years ago, pushed back in his memory like a long forgotten dream. In the morning, woken by a stream of warm light, for a second he almost imagines he’s awoken wrapped in furs, with a warm heavy weight at his back.

  


* * *

  


The ceremony is traditional but fleeting, and it passes T’Challa by in a blur. 

M’Baku sits next to T’Challa on a high backed chair finely decorated, once ushered next to him by Ramonda. He smirks over at T’Challa, but does actually look disconcerted by the sheer crowd in attendance, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His matching agbada crumples with his posture as he arranges himself again, fidgeting. 

T’Challa sits up straight, his focus fading in and out of the words his mother is speaking, until finally, Shuri steps up to take hold of his hand.

She wraps his wrist once in black and gold cloth, sturdy and lined with vibranium mesh. She crosses it over to M’Baku’s hand, not before shooting him a warning look, and then does the same on his side, then ties them together. T’Challa’s stomach drops at the finality of it.

They’re swept up into the hall soon after, before unease can cripple him. It’s lavishly decorated in a way he hasn’t seen it since his father was alive. The tables are adorned with food and fine tableware and the whole room is alight with colour. His people are celebrating and dancing, and he passes by smiling faces wishing him well and any doubts dissipate. He has done the right thing if he can bring his people peace and happiness.

Once they are fully in sight of all the emissaries and tribal leaders, including those of the Jabari, T’Challa takes firm hold of M’Baku’s arm.

“You have to kiss me,” T’Challa says under his breath, leaning in close to his ear.

He looks taken aback for a second, before strong hands slide up T’Challa’s jaw and grasp onto the small of his neck, holding him in place. M’Baku kisses him fiercely, lining his jaw up right to capture his lips fully, and T’Challa’s hands reach out for him the same.

Then it’s over as quick as it began as M’Baku pulls back, and the room erupts in raucous cheers, seemingly appeased.

T’Challa turns to thank him for performing his duties without a hitch, but he’s already gone, pulled into the throng of the crowd by some relative or another. This is their life now, for the foreseeable future. Diplomatic meetings and royal gatherings, hand holding and signs of solidarity.

He drinks and eats, thanks ambassadors and leaders from other tribes for their congratulations, and deflects with practiced ease any probing questions about his _husband_. 

The night goes on, and eventually he catches sight of him, a head above the rest, dancing wholeheartedly with Shuri and Nakia, his laugh booming through the hall. T’Challa can’t help smiling. It’s closer to morning than midnight when it finally begins to die down, and he accepts one last congratulation from his mother.

“He will be good to you,” she says. “He will challenge you, but he will be good, I can tell.”

He kisses her forehead and orders to her retire, laughing. His sister, however, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon, makes her way over to him.

“I got you a present,” she says, only a little slurred from wine.

“I’m a married man now, how could I possibly want for anything,” he jokes, and she rolls her eyes.

“Come,” she commands him. “You too,” a little louder so M’Baku can hear. To T’Challa’s surprise he follows her instruction. She must have charmed him.

A ship waits for them once they hit the cooler night air outside, already powered up, with tin cans she must have attached on the back herself. T’Challa knows his sister’s intelligence well. A honeymoon wouldn’t just be a few days of respite for them; it would be a symbol of the marriage being a legitimate one, and would help quash any further thoughts of an uprising. Shuri possesses a shrewdness he doesn’t; she would make a great leader too, if it arose.

“Please tell me this is to take me back home away from this madness,” M’Baku grumbles, joking.

Shuri digs an elbow in his side and he huffs out a surprised breath.

“This was all your idea, I will remind you,” T’Challa says. “You’re not having second thoughts already?”

M’Baku shrugs, grinning. “I’ll let you know by the end of the night.”

That earns him another dig from the princess, harder this time.

“Don’t you think of defiling my brother’s honour. Now go, before I change my mind. Your schedule is clear for the weekend. Be grateful.”

“Thank you,” T’Challa says, genuinely appreciative, he wraps an arm around Shuri’s shoulders. Any break will be a welcome one, he realises, only now feeling how tired he is down to his bones.

She coughs, tapping her foot impatiently when M’Baku already turns to leave.

“Oh, right. Thanks, sister,” he concedes, tapping his fist to hers playfully.

T’Challa feels strangely possessive at their quick familiarity, but brushes it off, boarding the ship. It’s better than Shuri being forced into marriage with him, even if it is strange that they’re brother and sister now themselves.

The ship takes them out of the Golden City and across plains towards the border, where there’s only natural light and the shadow of the high mountains in the distance. They’re dropped off at a large house with rounded walls and polished wood furnishings. M’Baku mumbles in agreement, walking around and sizing it up. T’Challa looks out of the windows, looking for any signs of the Dora Milaje, who he’s sure are stationed out there somewhere beyond his sight.

Some belongings have been dropped off, one case left in each bedroom, and a bottle of champagne is waiting on the table for them along with two glasses. 

“So,” M’Baku begins. “This is it.”

“It is.” Now that they’re here, alone in the quiet, T’Challa, the infallible king, feels nerves he hasn’t felt in a long time. Not since his father’s passing. This is it. He always knew he would end up here, alone with an almost stranger on his wedding night. At one point it might have been Nakia, but that future was long gone. 

“Goodnight then.” M’Baku leaves abruptly before T’Challa can overthink, closing the door behind him. 

His heart sinks. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It was wrong of him to think they would be the same, after everything, years and years later. With violence and differences and duty between them, why did he think they could pretend they were teenagers again?

T’Challa pours himself a drink and almost finishes it in one go. He is about to top it up when M’Baku’s door opens again, and he’s laughing at him, his chest now bare and rising rapidly with each huffing laugh.

“Look at your face! I’m kidding, get in here, don’t look so sullen. We can talk for a while, it’s been too long.”

More annoyed than relieved, T’Challa follows him in. M’Baku pats on his bed, gesturing for him to sit. T’Challa won’t be commanded, married or not, and stays standing stiffly, although he is relieved to see a glimmer of the boy he knew once.

“Here.” He throws some light pajamas at him and he catches them. “It’s far too hot in here, and you’re making me feel warmer just looking at you.”

T’Challa does concede and takes off his robe. It’s stifling, and the fabric has been sticking uncomfortably to his skin after too many hours of wear.

M’Baku dives onto his bed, landing with him arms spread taking up almost all the space. T’Challa sits on the edge. There was a time they were more comfortable with each other than anyone else in the world. That feels like another lifetime.

“Are you fine with sleeping with one person for the rest of your life?” M’Baku asks, breaking the silence. It’s not the insecurity T’Challa would expect him to have and takes him aback.

“I am,” T’Chaka says, trying to sound sure. “It is for my country. Are you?”

“I am. The women of the Jabari tribe, however, are currently in mourning.” He makes himself smaller, curling onto his side to allow T’Challa the space to lie down next to him. “I’m sorry if I forced you into this, but I did think it would help.”

“You could not force me to do anything,” T’Challa says, indignant. “Besides, there was a time I would have snapped your hand off at such a proposal.” He’s ashamed in saying it, but he was smitten for a long time, even after they lost contact with each other.

“Huh,” he laughs. “Me too.”

They talk for a long time, their weariness forgotten, about things that have changed and things that are different. The small flame T’Challa held inside himself for the version of M’Baku he remembered is stoked by his laughter and his honest words.

T’Challa turns his body to face him once they both grow silent. His chest is rising and falling in small, shallow breaths and his eyes are large and trained on his, intense and dark.

M’Baku runs a finger not quite on his lips, just enough to displace the air between the two of them. Of course he’s waiting for T’Challa to make the first move, respect and tradition and everything. It could easily have been someone else in his place, another man or a woman he’d married and he would be lying in bed with. Their paths have intersected and grown apart at so many points its almost a miracle they’re here.

Keening into his touch, T’Challa kisses his fingers then down his wrist, licking at where his pulse beats beneath his skin. That’s all it takes to give M’Baku permission, and he’s pulling him in to kiss him like he could make up for years of absence and violence between them.

T’Challa opens his mouth, letting his tongue inside and M’Baku pushes inside, eager, but he’s still so soft with him. T’Challa groans in desperation and deepens it, getting rougher. He nips on his tongue and presses his knee between his thighs, moving upwards, trying to make him react.

Finally, M’Baku grabs him firm by both arms and rolls them over, vying for dominance over him. He thinks he’s winning this fight, that he’s going to push T’Challa onto his back and have him spread his legs and take him like some innocent virgin bride. He’s mistaken.

T’Challa uses a good amount of his superhuman strength to turn the tables on him, flipping him over and slamming him back into the mattress. Springs groan under both their combined weights and M’Baku grunts underneath him. He holds him down, really holds him, and delights a little when M’Baku tries to push him off and fails. 

He’s already hard beneath him and he ruts up against T’Challa through the thin fabric of their pants. At every touch they feel like teenagers again; all the points of contact of their bodies feel illicit and exciting. M’Baku groans when he finally reaches his hand down to touch him, freeing his cock from his loose pants. 

T’Challa rolls his hips, grinding up against him, slow and frustrating to try and make him feel how he has for years, never being able to shake off that small part of him carved out just for him. For all his morals and integrity, it doesn’t take M’Baku long to pull at T’Challa’s pants, beckoning him to remove them.

M’Baku reaches over the side of the bed into his packed bag and returns with a small bottle that he squeezes onto his hand, then onto his cock. Blunt, thick fingers press against T’Challa’s entrance, and he’s too cautious, too gentle. T’Challa pushes further down onto them, asking him wordlessly for more.

Once M’Baku lines himself up, he breathes heavy and is unable to take his eyes away from where the two of them meet. T’Challa slides onto him smooth and tight, and they both loose their breaths when M’Baku bottoms out inside him.

“Please,” M’Baku begs him. He looks like he is looking at a god, and T’Challa rides him with haste. He forgets his status and his dignity and gives in to the hot pleasure building in his stomach, fucking onto him faster

M’Baku comes with hands digging into his thighs with barely restrained brute strength. He holds him close, and T’Challa doesn’t last much longer after once M’Baku’s trembling hands wrap around him.

All the years lost between them are almost forgotten, but they’re not the same people they were when they were younger. He hardly knows him at all, and he doubts M’Baku knows much more about him than any other citizen. To him he might not be much more than the dutiful young king, devoid of personality, his purpose for living is his people. 

M’Baku stretches and drapes a heavy leg over him, the weight warm and comforting. That doesn’t matter now, they have years to discover each other. 

  


* * *

  


The next morning, T’Challa takes them both through the capital. His people are M’Baku’s people now, and it would do him good to see their way of living. Their ships lands them on the outskirts near the river. Even here, far from the centre and the palace, life moves fast and the buildings are still dizzyingly high.

They eat and sightsee, passing mostly unnoticed aside from a few knowing glaces or averting eyes. He points out new uses of their technology, new transportation and geoengineering making the air clear and fresh. T’Challa takes them both up a skyscraper once the day begins to grow dark, where the high glass allows a view of the city as well as the sky. He wants M’Baku to see what their country can be like without conflict and strife.

“You picked a good day to get married,” T’Challa tells him. “Today is a lunar eclipse, a celebration of Bast.”

As the full moon comes into sight, crowds begin to leave their homes and flood to the streets, dancing and waving panther masks, and music is played so loud they can hear it from this high up. There’s even a few with gorilla masks; their union must have been received well by some. Eventually, the moon turns red in the sky as the earth passes to eclipse it, and the festivities reach an energetic climax.

They leave before the celebration dies down, and arrive back tired and sheened with sweat. M’Baku drags him into the shower with him, undressing him and washing him himself. He takes the time to look him over for marks and differences; it has been a long time since they were teenagers together. M’Baku is different too. He is harder now where he was once soft, and the palms of his hands are rough and calloused.

T’Challa presses him against the wall and jerks him off like they have all the time in the world. M’Baku comes with a grunt pressed into the junction of his shoulder

M’Baku dries him off with large, gentle hands. He wonders if he considers T’Challa his possession now, and if he treats all his belongings as reverently. They sleep pressed up against each other at every point possible.

  


* * *

  


The day later, they take a walk from the emptiness of the plains to the rugged mountains. Growing more comfortable, they allow themselves to walk in almost silence for hours as the landscape begins to incline.

M’Baku laughs heartily at him as he notices his shallow breathing and shivering limbs, being ill prepared for the climate and the altitude. He shrugs off his fur coat and drapes it over T’Challa’s shoulders, still laughing and ignoring his protests.

“I’m ready to turn back,” T’Challa says.

“We are not far now. A king needs to be able to endure all of the elements. Besides, we can warm up later.”

Once they reach a clearing of flat terrain, T’Challa sees steam rising and grass growing through melted snow.

“Here, see.” There’s several craters of geothermal hot springs in the earth and natural pockets of hot water as far as he can see. “There’s other resources other than your metal, you know. But we have never made full use of it’s potential.”

“Tapping into the energy could be highly scalable,” T’Challa says, his mind running with potentials and ideas. “It could save us oil imports and-

“I know, I know,” M’Baku interrupts. “I am on my honeymoon, don’t bore me with economics. Come on.”

He’s already shedding his clothes, seemingly impervious to the cold, and wading into a spring. T’Challa joins him eventually, when he thinks he might actually be at risk of catching frostbite if he stands here much longer.

M’Baku keeps his arm around him the whole way home, still warm, and later he fucks him into the bed until a fever spreads across his skin and he sees stars.

  


* * *

  


By the time they return to the palace, Okoye informs him that the fights instigated by members of the Jabari have almost come to an end. Any further skirmishes following, as a true warrior king, T’Challa quells himself. After that, T’Challa spends several weeks in M’Baku’s city. He meets with the people of his tribe, and although they are not quick to warm to him. They become more hospitable once he listens to their concerns and their needs, and, in the evening, T’Challa discusses them in depth with M’Baku until the early hours.

M’Baku is surprisingly receptive in listening to T’Challa’s ideas, however he does argue with him when it is necessary. They both raise their voices to each other, equally passionate, until one of them yields, the other making it up to them that night in their bed. Eventually, M’Baku concedes to allow planning for a new system of power to be implemented, to improve the quality of life in small mountain villages. 

T’Challa knows that he is stuck between two sides and thanks him for it. All talk of politics is forgotten once T’Challa uses his mouth on him, his head falling back and letting out a sigh of gratification. 

  


* * *

  


Within months, a new underground power line linking back to the solar generators the rest of the kingdom uses is in place. There’s no visible overhead lines, light pollution or power stations to ruin the peace of the tribe’s homeland, as M’Baku requested. Shuri also tapped into geothermal energy from under the mountains, so that the Jabari can contribute to the energy for the whole kingdom in turn. 

T’Challa urges M’Baku to be the one to switch it on for the first time, and they both smile and wave to cameras and the crowd in attendance. M’Baku looks like a rightful king next to him, standing tall and proud. 

Their country isn’t perfect yet, they still have a long way to go. But as he holds onto T’Challa at the small of his back and T’Challa’s heart stutters, and he knows that they have the time to get there.

**Author's Note:**

> This got out of hand so fast.  
> I was liberal with any ages in canon, idk, T’Challa and M’Baku are 35/33? Shuri is maybe 19, but whatever you like until proven otherwise.
> 
> I need no more encouragement but @ me with prompts and I’ll bring more porn to this fandom. I’m easily peer pressured.


End file.
